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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26639035">Ring the Bell Backwards</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/essenceofmeanin/pseuds/essenceofmeanin'>essenceofmeanin</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Hannibal (TV), Hannibal - Fandom</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Canon Typical Violence, Couple of times actually, Dubious Consent, Force-Feeding, Gratuitous Food Metaphors, M/M, Medical Trauma, Post-Episode: s03e07 Digestivo, Somnophilia, Starvation, Strangulation, Whump</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-09-25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-09-25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 08:35:40</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,501</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26639035</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/essenceofmeanin/pseuds/essenceofmeanin</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>By the fourth day of his incarceration autophagy has begun to set in. Hannibal has always enjoyed the concept of it, even while suffering through: the ouroboros inevitability of <i>eating oneself</i>.</p>
<p>Hannibal, the first week in prison.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>61</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Ring the Bell Backwards</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>He cannot hear the rain down here. </p>
<p>It is cold in a way that seeps into his bones, the air wet &amp; heavy against any exposed skin.  The only sounds available to him are these: the clanging of the gates, the odd ring of a cell phone. The screams &amp; groans of the others confined here with him, unseen but stinking of mildew &amp; sheets unwashed. Putrid with old sweat &amp; piss, a high acrid top note of seminal fluid. It reminds him of nothing so much as a corked bottle of wine, brettanomyces tipped over from noble rot into ruin.</p>
<p>They have placed him in Wills old cell. Whether bureaucratic laziness or a crass attempt at humor, he doesn't know.  He presses his face against the old jagged stone &amp; fancies that some cell, some hair, some piece of Will still remains to sustain him. </p>
<p>It will have to be enough. </p>
<p>There is no sense of time in his cell. No way to know day from night except for the pitiful excuse for food set in front of him at regular intervals. Hannibal is not hungry, in any case. <i>If I am ever apprehended,</i> he says to Will in the flickering bonfire of all his choices, <i>my memory palace will serve as more than a mnemonic device. I will live there.</i></p>
<p>It had been his habit to drink Burgundy during his time with Will. Soft on the palate, redolent of mushrooms &amp; the secret undergrowth of an ancient forest. It comes to him now in the scent of wet leaves, a stone path uncovered in the brush.  Blackberries rotting on the vine. For the first time, he sees the pain cross Will’s eyes as he winces a reply. </p>
<p>
  <i>Could you be happy there?</i>
</p>
<p>He lets the wine roll across his tongue &amp; down his throat. It tastes like dust.</p>
<p>****</p>
<p> Naturally, Fredrick is the first to come and gloat. Hannibal hears the irregular <i>tap tap</i> of his cane as he makes his way down the hall. Frederick is whistling lightly. Hannibal had nearly missed his affectations, that construct of credibility.</p>
<p>He feels his lip curl against his will. </p>
<p>“Well well well,” Frederick sighs, “In your natural habitat at last. And they tell me you turned yourself in?” He steps closer to the bars, close enough that the Cognac on his breath is readily apparent. “Why oh <i>why</i> would you do a thing like that?”  </p>
<p>He does not draw close enough to reach. </p>
<p>“I had an invite to the party, of course. Shared some eclairs with Mr. Verger.” He smiles at Hannibal, leaning in confidentially. “Can't say I’m sorry to have skipped out on the festivities,” Tap. Tap. “I did try to warn him.” </p>
<p>He studies his shoes in a false bout of sincerity, before his lips tick up in a swiftly hidden smile. “Though I must say it looked like you had a <i>whale</i> of a time.” The noise of the cane is hollow in the echoing space; empty as a barren field. </p>
<p>Hannibal wants to warm to the engagement, the <i>passé avant</i>, parry &amp; riposte. He yields, instead. He lays down, crosses his fingers across his belly, &amp; slips away into his mind. </p>
<p>***</p>
<p>It is after the ortolans that Will kisses him for the first time, lips still slick and singed with fat. “I was euphoric when I killed Freddie Lounds,” he confesses. </p>
<p>In front of the fire, Armagnac in hand, he says, “What is it like for you?” His voice is soft, almost shy in the boldness of his question. His eyes flick to Hannibal's and hold, searchingly, but he has no idea what Will might find.</p>
<p>Will reaches out, skates his knuckles against the silk of Hannibal's tie.  Curls his fingers and pulls the knot tight against his Adam’s apple. Tilts his body close. Hannibal is struck, a vast gulf between this moment &amp; any he had dared to imagine; to be asked, to be seen, to be known in his entirety. He must be falling, he knows it, he feels it in the tips of his numb fingers &amp; in his mind still humming with pleasure from the tiny organs crushed beneath his teeth. </p>
<p>His hand trembles as he reaches out to fit his palm against the curve of Wills cheek. All the languages available to him and the only thing he hears is white noise. His voice is rough when he makes his own confession, “I do not have the words.” His eyes fall closed and all Will has to do is lean forward to catch him.</p>
<p>He tastes like figs and rainwater, like the tender dark flesh of the heart so rich with iron, supple against the tongue. Oh, he was, he <i>is</i> euphoric, his mind humming, already intoxicated. Like the first taste of foie gras, animal hindbrain buzzing at the glut of fat &amp; sustenance. </p>
<p>He is full of hunger, hands shaking as he unbuttons Wills shirt &amp; touches his warm bare skin for the first time without the kill suit between them. Hannibal runs his hands along Wills abdominals &amp; sees as in a dream the tissue part cleanly beneath his fingers, the red wet truth of him &amp; Hannibal wants to swallow him whole. </p>
<p>***</p>
<p>By the fourth day of his incarceration autophagy has begun to set in. Hannibal has always enjoyed the concept of it, even while suffering through: the ouroboros inevitability of <i>eating oneself</i>. As Ketoacidosis begins he smells raspberries &amp; strawberries; imagines them draped across the hillocks &amp; valleys of a summer pavlova, a forest of wafer thin tuiles dusted with pink peppercorns &amp; tempered chocolate rising from the cloud. </p>
<p>He may be dreaming. He isn’t sure. The guard rattles the untouched breakfast tray- the rubbery, sulfurous eggs - before shoving another in. Ground meat of more dubious origin than his own freezer, tinned mushrooms &amp; unseasoned, pulpous rice. He drifts, limbs sinking heavy into the mattress as time slows &amp; stretches.</p>
<p>“They tell me you’re not eating.” </p>
<p>Jack’s voice appears like an omen, low &amp; resonant. He fills the space like water, a flood to Hannibal’s deprived senses.  Burnt, oily coffee &amp; an old, slept-in shirt. Lavender, the same soapy scent he often caught on Bella’s clothes before. </p>
<p>Is it the same afternoon? Is it morning? </p>
<p>Hannibal pushes himself on his elbows with a difficulty that surprises him. His hands are lightly trembling.  “Jack,” he tries, &amp; winces at the catch in his voice. Clears his throat &amp; tries again, “How kind of you to visit.” </p>
<p>“Please,” Jack says, dry as a desert, “Don’t get up on my account.”</p>
<p>Hannibal tries, dizzy &amp; nauseous. The fresh brand on his back pulls away from the jumpsuit as he moves. The skin cracks. The sour, purulent taste of his own infection fills his nostrils; he gags, saliva filling his dry mouth. He can’t remember the taste of water.</p>
<p>“Can’t live with him, can’t live without him, is that it?” Jack folds his hands neatly behind his back. “If I recall, you were ready to slice his skull open &amp; <i>eat his brain</i> the last time I saw you two together &amp; now you’re, what is this, <i>pining</i>?” He scoffs.</p>
<p>“Do you not also hunger, Jack?” Hannibal sways forward, hands gripping the sheets. “Your days were full and now are empty, the other side of the bed long gone cold. <i>And on this burning heart she fed</i>,” he purrs, old songs flitting through his brain like birds. “You will <i>always</i> hunger.” </p>
<p>“This isn’t about me, Doctor,” Jack counters smoothly. “And don’t mistake this for a sympathy visit. I’m here to make sure you make it to trial &amp; pay for what you’ve done.”</p>
<p>“Sympathy,” Hannibal grits out, climbing to his feet. He’s not as steady as he would like, his vision clouding at the edges. Granulating like sand. “Is there none between us? I sent you flowers, did I not?” </p>
<p>“Lecter -“ Jack starts, but doesn’t finish. </p>
<p>Maybe he tries. The world slows &amp; spins to a juddering halt; he sees Jack reach a hand out, as if he’d forgotten the bars between them. </p>
<p>Hannibal falls, the floor vanishing beneath his feet, eaten by the dark. </p>
<p>***</p>
<p>He wakes in the silent hours before sunrise. The fire has long since collapsed to embers. Smoke lingers in the air, settled into their empty glasses &amp; the fibers of his blankets. Will sleeps beside him, both arms outstretched across the sheets, palms fallen open. </p>
<p>Their mingled sweat draws Hannibal as the trail of truffles draws a dog through the forest. He scents, softly, Will’s hair &amp; the delicate skin beneath his jaw. Rubbed raw with stubble &amp; the blood beating slow &amp; close to the surface. He ghosts the tips of his fingers down the gentle curve of Wills ribs, the vulnerable dip of his iliac crest. He parts Will’s cheeks with tender fingers, touching lightly where he is still slick &amp; swollen with evidence of their joining. </p>
<p>Will sighs, hums sleepily. His lips part as Hannibal rubs his fingers through his own semen, breath thickening into the faint substance of a moan. He’s a heavy sleeper, full of dreams. Hannibal slips a finger into the heat of him, soothing Will as he trembles &amp; whines. He catches the lube from where it was pushed thoughtlessly under the pillows &amp; coats them both until it drips between them. </p>
<p>He fits the blunt head of his cock against Will’s hole &amp; pushes inside. </p>
<p>Will jerks awake, “H - <i>Hannibal</i>,” startled out of him in a whimper. Distinctly a noise of fear. Hannibal rolls them over, crushing Wills chest into the sheets. He wraps a hand around his throat &amp; squeezes, Will’s pulse drumming beneath his fingers. Hannibal <i>shhhs</i> him, uses his knees to pin Will’s thrashing legs to the bed. His body is fever hot &amp; clutches at Hannibal’s cock as he struggles.  Hannibal thrusts into Will like he could climb inside, dizzy with arousal at the sound of Will’s aborted, sobbing breaths.  </p>
<p>Will worms a hand free, his fingers slippery with sweat over Hannibals’ grip on his throat.  Rather than prying at him, desperate for air as he must be, Will squeezes tighter, tighter, head forced back into Hannibal’s shoulder until he can see Will’s eyes rolled back in his head, face red, mouth dropped open.  Hannibal can feel Will’s oxygen-deprived muscles seizing beneath his body, wanting, <i>his</i> —</p>
<p>***</p>
<p>He wakes -</p>
<p>He can’t breathe -</p>
<p>He coughs, gags, tries to swallow the intrusion but it’s too late, he can feel the tube cold down deep inside him, he pitches forward but he’s caught, pinioned - </p>
<p>Hannibal stops, chest heaving, eyes shut so tight that stars carom between the bounded edges of his skull.  Nostrils fluttering around the invasive tube, a bite guard is wedged securely between his teeth &amp; held tightly in place with a smothering hand, blue-wrapped nitrile fingers digging into his carotid artery.  </p>
<p>“Whoa there, whoa -“</p>
<p>“Shit, he’s up already, what dosage did you use?”</p>
<p>The hands wrap a nylon dressing around his face as he fights to control his breathing.  The bite guard is stiff &amp; unyielding, too big for his mouth &amp; he swallows down his gag reflex as waves of nausea crash into him again &amp; again.  </p>
<p>“Hey, just trying to make sure you don’t choke, relax,” Gloved hands force his head back against the padded restraint, pry his eyes open to check pupillary response.  The world is sharp at the edges, coronas of light shearing off surgical steel.  The bile in his mouth is bitter &amp; flat, leaking out where his lips are wrapped around the silicone guard.  </p>
<p>“Why are you even talking to him, do you have any idea what he’s in here for?”</p>
<p>A face swims into his vision, a sneer pulling back thin lips &amp; Hannibal sees for a bare heart span Matthew Brown come back to finish the job, the manic light in his pale blue eyes.  He blinks and the moment passes; the eyes linger, narrowing contemptuously.  “Yeah, not so fun from the other side, is it?”  The man scoffs &amp; turns away.</p>
<p>Hannibal finds the other nurse in the swimming vortex of the room.  Robbed of his voice, he lets his eyes go wide, muscles lax &amp; trembling.  He sags in his restraints.  Pitiful noises escape his throat.  The nurse swallows visibly, and his eyes slide away to his companion.</p>
<p>“All right, let’s get him back to his cell.  It’s been long enough he shouldn’t throw it all up.”  He reaches forward cautiously, fingers finding the back of the mask.  Hannibal doesn’t have to fake his flinch at the sound of the Velcro tearing apart in the hollow room.  The nurse slides the bite guard out between his lips, strings of saliva glinting before they snap.  Hannibal whispers his thanks.</p>
<p>He breathes deeply as they pull the tube from his stomach, as it slithers up his digestive tract, as he tastes the gritty, salty Pulmocare, as it is finally pulled free.  He’d been so gentle with Will when their positions were reversed; he soothed fingers down his throat as Will swallowed convulsively, cradled Will’s head in tender hands.  Held Will afterward, pulled tight against him as he cried weakly in Hannibal's arms.  Hannibal gasps, head tipped back into the thick padding, hands shaking in his restraints.  He looks for an instrument, a tool, but finds only medical waste, surgical lube and discarded gloves on the metal tray. </p>
<p>Hannibal sees the moment he becomes human in the nurse’s mind, eyes flickering up to give a reassuring glance as he unbuckles one restraint after another.  The other nurse is turned, getting the gurney, attention elsewhere.  Hannibal smiles as he is lifted to his feet, as sweetly a smile as Will had ever turned his way.  </p>
<p>There is no thought, no deliberations in the span of one heartbeat to the next.</p>
<p>It only takes nine pounds of pressure to separate a human ear from a head, after all.  </p>
<p>Hannibal is moving before the blood hits the floor.  The nurse falls away, hands cupped around his wound, gasping in shock.  Hannibal takes the discarded tube they had used to violate him &amp; three short steps to wrap it around the throat of the other nurse.  He can hear the churning commotion of reinforcements coming down the hall from the guard station, the man behind him struggling to his feet.  </p>
<p>It’s indescribable when the taser hits.  It works quickly, converting his blood sugar into lactic acid, turning his knees to liquid.  Hannibal bares his teeth and rolls to control his fall, yanking the other man to the concrete.  He abandons the makeshift garrote as the feeling bleeds out of his fingers and gets an arm across the nurses’ throat, relishing every burst vein in his eyes, the blood speckling his lips as his trachea collapses.  Hannibal feels the barbs from more tasers hit the side of his neck, his back and braces himself for the welter of pain.  </p>
<p>***</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Murder Husbands No More!”</p>
<p>Her voice rings like a struck bell in the gloom of the underground. The cold, recycled air of his cell is permeated by her earthy scent: turmeric, ginger and gardenia.  The same perfume he found on Will, so long ago.</p>
<p>“Or maybe just <i>divorce!</i> in all caps, what do you think?  Catchy, direct, straight to the point.”  Freddie Lounds smirks, tilts her head in her condescending way.  “Well.  You know what I mean.”</p>
<p>He is hollowed out, emptied of all inside.  Fallen through the holes in his mind.  After everything, he is tired.  How full he had been, before he caught the scent of Will’s betrayal, his disdain.  Hannibal aches down to his very soul.  </p>
<p>“You know, Will Graham still owes me an interview.  Exclusive rights, actually.  I could write the tell all book: the <i>grand romance</i> of murder and Hannibal the Cannibal.  Love to get your side of things, of course.”  </p>
<p>There is a water stain on the ceiling, pocked marks around it as if a chisel had been taken to the stone.  Perhaps Will had found a weapon in here, something beside his own mind.  Hannibal takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly, not trusting his abraded throat.  “Enough, Miss Lounds.” The words catch somewhere behind his breastbone until he forces them out.  “Will no longer wishes to see me.”</p>
<p>The ancient folding chair creaks as Freddie leans forward, close enough to the bars to warrant a warning noise from the watchful guard.  “See, now <i>that’s</i> good, that’ll make for some delicious irony in the last act.  Some foreshadowing before he testifies against you at your trial.  What <i>will</i> you plead, anyway?  God made me do it?  Inquiring minds will want to know.”</p>
<p>She sighs at his continued silence, sits straight back in her chair and crosses one leg atop the other.  “I guess if you’re not feeling chatty I can just go upstairs &amp; ask Will myself.  We’ve got a better rapport these days since he pretended to kill me.”  </p>
<p>Hannibal turns his head, unable to help himself, his face like stone.</p>
<p>“Oh,” she exclaims, eyes full of mocking sincerity, “No one’s told you. Will’s been here this whole time.  Not,” she drawls, “In <i>here</i> like he so desperately needs to be, but pacing the parking lot.  Haunting the grounds.  Never quite able to make it through the front doors.” She turns her phone around, and Hannibal draws closer, pulled by the hook sank deep in his heart.  Picture after picture of Will, face pale &amp; stitched together by marching lines of black thread.  Retreated again behind the barrier of his glasses, head tipped back against an entry pillar; Hannibal reaches out to touch as if he could feel the delicate skin of his bared throat.  Freddie smiles, her pleasure at seeing him bleed, finally, as savage as his own.  She pulls the phone back, twists the knife again.  </p>
<p>“I think I’ll call it, ‘In Bed With the Devil’.  Millions of my readers will see him and you never will.  Except in court, I suppose.” Freddie stands gracefully to leave, phone tucked carefully away in her leather purse.  She pauses, and turns fully around to face him. “Maybe you’re actually getting what you deserve.”  </p>
<p>She leaves him there, fingers dug into his coarse blankets as he listens to her heels echo down the stone walkway.  The radio at the nurses station dims to silence in his ears as he reaches with all his soul as if he could find Will close, just above him, unable to leave Hannibal behind.  Somewhere in the dark, echoing places of his mind, a light begins to flicker with hope.  </p>
<p> </p>
<p>***</p>
<p>He eats.</p>
<p>He takes into his body whatever they will give him. Bruised, gelatinous bananas, potage of indeterminate source until they trust him with solid food.  Then chemically leavened bread and oily, sour butter substitutes in little plastic packages.  Something resembling pate de campagne, which the guard introduces simply as<i> loaf</i>. </p>
<p>The memories of survival are closer these days.  He can almost taste the viscera of the mice from his family's cellars, the stink of their punctured bowels as he ripped them apart in single minded pursuit of protein.  In his dreams Hannibal is a child again venturing into the inky forest and stripping bark from the trees to boil over their meager fire.  Then the snows, and the silence.</p>
<p>He will not starve again.  He knows, now, that nourishment will come.  </p>
<p>It is weeks of regaining strength, choking down their meagre offerings, before Alana comes.  Enough time has passed that he does not hear her cane as warning, discarded perhaps in a show of strength.  He smells her perfume first, rising like heat into his reverie only to dissipate like smoke.  It takes him a moment to place the base notes of scent.  Distinctly different from her choices in their previous lives:  white flowers and green tea given way to benzoin, caraway and a musky underlayer of blackberry vines.  </p>
<p>She stands before him with a solidity to her finespun frame, hands placed casually in her pockets &amp; chin lifted high to look him in the eyes.  He’s pleased to see it.  </p>
<p>“Hello, Alana.”  He steps forward, closer to the bars, to see her unimpressed eyebrows lift.  “You’ve changed your perfume.”</p>
<p>She acknowledges it with a tilt of her head. “A lot of things have changed, Hannibal.”  </p>
<p>“Have you come to bargain, perhaps?”  </p>
<p>“A deal with the devil?” she laughs, “I think we’re a bit past that, don’t you?”  </p>
<p>He doesn’t see it at first, until he does.  The very faint rounding of her cheeks, an effervescence to her hidden beneath the strong, androgen perfume.  Their new bargain, made over blood, pig shit and cattle prods, is slowly bearing fruit.  </p>
<p>His cell bleeds away. Alana weighs a heavy, unwavering gaze at him across the steel counter top of his Baltimore kitchen. His hands are dusted with four, the air full of the good smell of rising dough on a warm afternoon. </p>
<p>“Your lawyer has a full confession for you to sign.  The FBI is beating down my door.  I came to see what it would take to end this farce.”</p>
<p>Hannibal smiles slowly, his teeth showing. “I would like to see the stars,” he says, and he waits for the bread to rise.</p>
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